


The Case of the Suspicious Suicide

by Cyphomandra



Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: Boarding School, Case Fic, Detectives, Female Friendship, Gen, Misses Clause Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 03:39:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17035910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyphomandra/pseuds/Cyphomandra
Summary: 'Half a term!'  said Daisy to me. 'What could possibly happen in half a term? It's just exams and Speech Day!'Death in the Spotlight, Robin Stevens (2018).





	The Case of the Suspicious Suicide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mossy_Birch (Mossy_Bench)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mossy_Bench/gifts).



> Thanks to my incredible (and indelible) betas, BlackEyedGirl, China_shop and Dashi.
> 
> Dear Mossy_Birch, although this is set chronologically immediately after _Death in the Spotlight_ , as I was unsure whether you'd read it I have not included any spoilers. There is a brief mention of the setting. In addition, I identify the culprits responsible for the crimes in _Murder and Mistletoe_ and _Arsenic for Tea_ , but there are no spoilers for any other books.

We’d been back at Deepdean for almost a whole week when Lavinia found the body. Joan Makepeace's body, that was, although that seemed a strange way to phrase it, as if Joan had put it down for a moment and meant to pick it up again. Perhaps I was used to bodies by now, but death itself was still unnerving. When I tried to think about it my mind skittered away sideways.

But I am a detective and although feelings are important, I can put them to one side when necessary. And for Daisy, death - unnatural death, at least - is a personal challenge.

And, in this case, a personal insult.

“The third.” Daisy turned on her heel as her long stride brought her up almost with her nose against the window, her long blonde plaits flying out with the force of her movement. “This is the third death at Deepdean. None of them found by me.”

Lavinia glared up at her from where she was sitting on Beanie's bed. Beanie was next to her for reassurance, although Lavinia dealt badly with needing any sort of comfort and so alternated between clutching at Beanie's hand and bristling at everyone like a hedgehog. Kitty lay sprawled out on her own corner bed with her fingers in her ears, studying the maths textbook she had smuggled upstairs. Her parents had promised her a pony if she is in the top three in our end of year exams, and she was determined.

Usually we were not allowed up to our dorms at all between breakfast and bedtime. It was Thursday afternoon, and we should have been revising the Tudors with Miss Lappet, but Miss Barnard had sent everyone up to their dorms while the police came. I suspected Daisy found this even more offensive than the fact that Lavinia had discovered the body instead of her.

“I wish you had found her.” Lavinia must have squeezed Beanie's hand a little too tightly, because I heard a yelp. “Oh sorry.”

If Daisy wanted useful information out of Lavinia, she'd have to try another approach, I thought, and Daisy must have realised the same thing. She grimaced and stopped pacing, sinking down to crouch in front of Beanie's bed.

“It must have been awful.” Daisy was trying to get better at apologies, although she never liked admitting she might have been wrong. “Could you tell me it all again? You are a Detective Society assistant, after all.”

Fortunately I kept a casebook fastened to the underside of my socks and vest drawer with elastoplasts, along with a couple of pencils, and while Daisy was pacing I’d retrieved them. I flipped to a fresh page. In the distance I heard the crunch of tires on the gravel of the drive, and wondered if it was the police, and if they were coming or going.

My bed was the closest to the window, which faced south, and today was exceptionally sunny (“O Summer, Oft pitched'st here thy golden tent,” Miss Dodgson had said this morning as she looked out the window, and then we'd had a whole hour of poetry when we were supposed to be revising _Hamlet_.) Kitty used to complain about the stifling heat, but I rather liked it. It was not Hong Kong, but it was comfortable.

Lavinia swallowed. She looked pale under her freckles, and she was still gripping Beanie’s hand. “Oh all right then.” It sounded grudging, but she sat up a little straighter, and I could tell the mention of the Detective Society had helped.

Lavinia said she’d had a headache since the morning bunbreak (I'd seen her nibbling slowly around the edges of her date scone) and standing fielding in the hot sun during the morning's games (cricket) made her feel decidedly odd. When the games prefect acting as umpire saw Lavinia start to sway she ordered her off to see Matron.

I'd envied her. I would never be good at cricket, and I no longer thought I ought to be, although I never said this out loud. Daisy was excellent. She had a good throwing arm and was said to have a "straight bat", which is a very English thing. Personally I thought she was more like one of those balls that drifted towards you in a lazy harmless fashion and then jinked around suddenly and left your bails lying on the ground, but there wasn't an English compliment for that.

“Minny was lovely,” Lavinia said. “She put _eau de cologne_ on my forehead and told me to lie down. I dozed, actually. The next thing I knew Matron was there, shouting at one of the maids for not mopping the San.”

“Which one?”

Lavinia wrinkled up her nose. “Red hair. Frowns at whatever she's cleaning as if it did something nasty to a relative.”

“Dolores Gordon.” Daisy sounded satisfied. “Go on.”

“The maid said it wasn't her job, ma'am, Makepeace was doing the San that day, and Matron asked just where was Makepeace when she was supposed to be working. The maid said it wasn't her business to know where everyone was - Matron looked livid - but she had seen her going into the music room an hour or so ago.”

“Matron asked me where I was supposed to be. I had to check the time - it was just after one - so I told her science in the lab, and she said I could come with her as it was on the way and she wanted to make sure I actually went back to class. As if I wouldn’t.” Lavinia’s air of injured innocence was very convincing. “She also said that too much lying down was very bad for headaches. She was staring right at Minny when she said it, too.”

Nurse Minn was very kind and very trusting. Matron was decidedly neither.

“So Matron steamed off.” Lavinia looked down at the floor. “I followed her, and the maid came after us both. When we got to the music rooms there was a mop and bucket propped up outside. Matron tried the door of the little room, but it didn’t open, so she got out her keys out. She pulled the door open and shouted ‘Makepeace?’ and…”

Lavinia suddenly ran out of words. Beanie patted her on the shoulder. Daisy frowned down at them both, and I could see her wrestling with her need to extract the necessary information.

“The piano’s on the left in that room, isn’t it?” I put in.

It helped. Lavinia nodded. “There’s a little desk on the far wall, by the window. And some folding chairs. There was – one of the chairs had fallen over. The maid was all tangled up in it, on the floor. And her face - ”

She stopped again. We all waited. Even Kitty had taken her fingers out of her ears.

Lavinia gazed into the distance with unfocussed eyes. “It was dark - the curtains were drawn, and the light was off. When Matron opened the door we couldn't really see anything. She'd gone in to turn on the light before she realised Makepeace was - was dead.”

And Lavinia had realised right along with her.

Matron screamed and staggered backwards, knocking over Lavinia and the mop and bucket in a clatter that drew the attention of the fifth form string quartet practising for the end of term concert in the main music room next door. When the music master Mr Reid emerged, irate at the disturbance, Matron regained her feet but not her equilibrium. Lavinia picked herself up, trying not to look back at that face, and the red-headed maid, unable to see past either Matron or Lavinia, kept asking, “What is it ma'am? What's happened to her?” with increasing desperation until Matron turned on her and snapped, “The silly girl's killed herself”. Loud enough for the fifth formers to hear, and then there was no keeping it quiet.

Lavinia looked a little better. “They all screamed, too,” she said indignantly. “Diana Humphries even managed to faint, and she hadn't seen anything.”

Daisy's gaze was intent. “Did Matron turn on the light? Could you see the rest of the room?”

Lavinia frowned. “Yes," she said. “There was a glass on the desk. Empty. A scrap of paper next to it - I could see it curling up. And that little bust of Beethoven on the windowsill above." One of the second formers had added spectacles and a moustache to Beethoven a week before, much to the music master's dismay. Thinking of that comical-looking face watching as Makepeace died made it feel worse.

Kitty shut her book with a bang. “I don't see what's taking them so long. If she killed herself, that's terrible - but she's not a danger to anyone. It's not like a murder.”

“Isn't it?” Daisy sounded far too casual. 

I'd spotted it too. I caught Daisy's gaze, nodded slightly and turned over a page in my casebook, thinking about the best way to title the new case.

We weren't the only ones to work it out. Beanie cleared her throat. “You said Matron needed to unlock the door.” Her voice wavered, but she went on. “But the music rooms only lock from outside. They always have, since those shrimps managed to lock themselves in a few years ago.”

The stuffy dorm room was silent. Daisy looked around at us all. “Of course,” she said commandingly, “we need to consider all possibilities in our investigation.”

Everyone nodded obediently. I wrote “The Case of the Suspicious Suicide” in my notes and underlined it.

We had managed to sketch out a rough timeline when there was a knock on the door, and Pippa Daventry poked her head in to say we all had to come down to Hall right away. If Dolores was right, there was a ninety minute period in which the death had taken place, which at least began to narrow it down. We'd all been at games, then lunch (“Then maths,” Beanie said with a groan). That still left a lot of other girls and staff - and servants, I realised - to consider.

In Hall Miss Barnard stood in front of the whole school, hands clasped, and told us that most unfortunately one of the servants had died suddenly and although the police were investigating this was entirely routine, we were all perfectly safe, and there was no need for idle gossip. Or for any further action on our parts, she added. Her eyes rested for a moment on Daisy and myself.

A policeman was standing off to the side as she spoke. Not Inspector Priestly, nor anyone else I recognised; he was grey-haired and stocky, with a thick neck like a bulldog's. When Miss Barnard paused he cleared his throat in a significant manner.

“Yes. Lavinia Temple, Diana Humphries, and - ” (she named the rest of the string quartet) “- please come to my office after assembly. The rest of you, the whole new wing corridor and all of the attached rooms are out of bounds until further notice.”

Lavinia stiffened. We'd expected a summons (“Tell them exactly what you told us,” Daisy instructed. "Don't tell them what you think it means, or that we're looking into it as well. It's only fair to make them work it out.”) but I hoped she wouldn't find it too horrible, and whispered encouragement. She glared, and stalked off towards Miss Barnard's office. 

The girls were filing out of Hall. Daisy took my arm and whispered, “Tell Pippa we're waiting for Lavinia,” to Kitty, steered us behind a large clump of third formers, and then yanked me sideways down the corridor to the new wing during a brief gap when no staff were visible. We ducked around the corner and moved as fast as we dared towards the music rooms.

Daisy peered around the corner but pulled her head back quickly.

“Police?” I kept my voice low. 

Daisy nodded. “Just the one. Bother. All right.” She chewed her lip. “There's the fire alarm outside the Hall.”

Sometimes I think Daisy gets carried away. I hesitated. Someone hissed behind us.

One of the school maids stood a few steps up the staircase to the first floor. Her cap was askew on her red hair and her eyes were puffy, as if she'd been crying. She beckoned us over.

Dolores - I was sure it was her - led us up the stairs to the landing, where she stopped and turned. She scanned my face, then Daisy's, as if looking for something, but didn't speak.

“I'm terribly sorry about Joan,” Daisy said. “Did you want to talk to us about it?”

It was like opening a floodgate. “You two got Jonesy his job back when the Head sacked him, didn't you? And found out who murdered Miss Bell. Just like in those detective stories.” Her voice was hoarse.

“We did. We can help you, too.” Daisy sounded pleased by the recognition.

“You have to find out what happened. She was happy, miss.” The tears started in her eyes again. “She had a man who wrote to her, and she said they was going to get married once he found her something else to do, as she couldn’t stay in service here with a husband. She wouldn't have gone and drank poison.”

For a moment I was back on the stage of the Rue Theatre, watching from the wings as Rose snatched up the prop vial (“Oh churl, drunk all, and left no friendly drop/To help me…”). I shivered.

“We need to have a look at where it happened,” Daisy said. “Who has keys to the practice rooms?”

Dolores counted on her fingers. “Head has a full set. Matron. Mr Reid. Joan herself. And there's a set in the office for the girls to use.”

“You don't have one?”

Dolores shook her head. “Sometimes if we're pushed I come with Joan, miss, but mainly I do the upstairs.” 

“Does her fiancé know?” I asked.

“I don't know, miss.” Dolores shifted to face me. “She never said his name.”

“Why wouldn't she tell you?” Daisy queried.

“Some people like keeping things secret.”

It made me think of Alexander's letters, which I had been keeping secret from my parents, and I could feel my cheeks warming. To distract Daisy's sharp eyes I hunted for another question. 

“Other family? Brothers, sisters, parents?”

Nothing, or at least nothing Dolores knew about. We were running out of time. I stole a glance at my wristwatch, and my insides sank a little. “Daisy.”

She frowned. “We need to see the room.”

I did not want to set off the fire alarm. “What about tomorrow?”

“I can get you two in.” Dolores was suddenly confident. “Give me five minutes.” She pushed between us and down the stairs. 

“Wait!” Daisy whispered after her. Dolores pivoted on her heel. “When did you see Joan outside the music room?”

Dolores squinted thoughtfully. “A little before noon? I was just going to set the tables for lunch.”

Daisy nodded. Dolores' light footsteps went around the corner and within a minute there was a clanking noise, followed by the voice of the police officer.

“What are you doing with that?”

“My job, same as you,” Dolores said pertly. The clanking must have been the mop, I realised.

“That's evidence, that is.” The policeman sounded stern.

“Oh, did she drown herself in a mop bucket then?” Dolores snipped. “Thought it was arsenic.”

The policeman snorted. “Then you don't know a lot, do you. Cyanide.”

Cyanide. A quick but painful death. Daisy was plastered up against the wall, listening intently.

More clanking, and then Dolores' footsteps again.  
.  
“Put that down,” the police officer said.

“I need to empty that water, it's fair disgusting,” Dolores answered, and we heard heavier footsteps tailing her.

“Come on, Hazel.” Daisy flung herself around the corner like a dog on a scent.

Alexander likes locks as well as logic puzzles, and I studied the door thinking about some of the things he'd taught me. It was a single barrel lock, with no obvious scratches or signs of force. Daisy rattled the handle.

It didn't open. She shook it again and then shoved hard, putting her shoulder into it.

“Miss Wells. Miss Wong.”

Inspector Priestly had come silently along the corridor behind us and was standing across from the music room, his face imperturbable. Daisy grimaced and let go of the door handle.

“I did think you ought to have called us in earlier.” She set her back against the door and glared at him.

Inspector Priestly came towards us. He pushed Daisy gently aside and reached into his breast pocket for a key.

“Indeed.” The lock gave with a click. He set one hand on the door handle. “Perhaps I thought my men needed a head start.”

“That's not fair,” Daisy argued. “Especially when it's right on our doorstep.”

“Indeed,” the Inspector said again. “Tell me, what have you found out?”

“I don't see why we have to tell you anything!”

“Daisy.” We did need the police. I shot her an apologetic grimace. “We think these rooms only lock from the outside, but the door was locked when the body was found.”

The Inspector regarded me thoughtfully. “That is true.”

“Oh, really, Hazel,” Daisy said, but the anger had gone out of her voice. “All right. Yes. And we heard that Joan didn't seemed to have any reason to kill herself. It made us want to check. We would have told you if we'd found anything relevant.”

She didn't say when we would have told him, nor exactly how she'd found out about Joan. 

“Inspector?” The other policeman returned, carrying the now-empty bucket.

“It's all right, Conway, I'll take it from here.” The Inspector waved him away and returned his focus to us.

“The body is in the morgue, awaiting autopsy, but the findings do suggest poisoning.”

“Cyanide?” Daisy asked.

“Your sources are impressive. Most probably. And a note - in pencil, on a scrap of music paper, with ‘SORRY’ in block capitals.”

Daisy snorted dismissively. 

“No key was found either on the body or in the room,” the Inspector went on. “We did, however, find a few other items, which - possibly against my better judgement - I will let the two of you contemplate. I do so largely because I fear what steps you might take to obtain the information if I do not give it to you. I feel I should emphasise that detection is not a game.”

Daisy made an appalled face. “Of course it isn’t.”

The Inspector pushed open the door. As we crowded in I couldn't help taking a deep breath, a little afraid of what I might smell, but the air was clean, with no hint of death. The chair Lavinia had mentioned was still overturned, and there was a dark stain on the floorboards. 

He shut the door behind the three of us. “Please don't touch anything.”

It was like finding a puzzle in a book that someone had already filled in the answers to. Neither the glass nor the note were on the desk, but there was a looseleaf page there with a neat diagram showing their former positions, and another note on the floor. A third page was over in the corner, by the small closed window. Daisy crouched down next to it.

“What was this?”

The Inspector didn't move. “A cigarette butt. Woodbine. Relatively fresh, no lipstick.”

Daisy stood up again, brushing dust from her skirt. “The music master doesn't smoke. Miss Lappet and Miss Morris do, but they'd hardly smoke Woodbines. Was Joan - ”

“No reports of her smoking, and she was wearing red lipstick. Tube of it in her apron pocket.”

Daisy, who'd started to pace across the room, came to a halt. “So she must have been meeting someone. Her fiancé?”

“We've searched her room.” The Inspector glanced at his own watch. “Someone had been burning letters in the grate. A few scraps of paper left. ‘Your dearest A -’ was on one of them.”

“She comes here to meet someone.” Daisy went over to the desk. “He - whoever - offers her a drink, waits for her to die and leaves a note to make it look like suicide. And these rooms are soundproofed, so it doesn't matter if she calls for help.”

Something nagged at me, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. “Whoever smoked the cigarette, you mean. But why would anyone want to kill her?” I still found it hard to understand why people would choose murder over any other means to resolve their difficulties.

“We still need a suspect list.” Daisy snapped her fingers. “Did you bring your casebook?”

“I may be able to assist in that," the Inspector put in. "I realise it may run counter to your method, but I did dispatch officers to all the local dispensaries to review their poisons registers. In particular, purchases of cyanide.”

He reached into his pocket again and produced a folded sheet of paper. Both Daisy and I grabbed for it, but she does have more reach and better reflexes than I do - cricket again - and she got there first and opened it. 

“C. Jones, T. Riddiford… A. Clement.” Daisy scanned the rest of the page. “No other As. Although it could be a nickname, I suppose. Or a false one.” 

Inspector Priestly held out a hand for the sheet. Daisy handed it back reluctantly.

“The poisons register was a good thought,” she said. “Who is A. Clement?”

“A commercial traveller selling garden supplies.” The Inspector put away the paper. “Visits Deepdean school usually monthly, for a day or so at a time. Two days ago he told the village chemist in Chiddingford that there was a wasps’ nest that he wanted to eradicate, and said he'd had a bad experience using petrol.”

“When did he last come here?” I asked.

The Inspector's face was grave. “This morning.”

A shiver ran down my spine. “Where is he?”

“Upstairs, cooling his heels outside one of your science laboratories.” The Inspector opened the door. “My officers brought him in half an hour ago.” 

Daisy didn't move. “Is he the fiancé?”

I'd been wondering that myself.

“I can't confirm that,” Inspector Priestly said. “According to his employer he is married, with a wife and two small children in Ash Vale.”

“Mmm.” Daisy's eyes gleamed. “Could we talk to him?”

Inspector Priestly surveyed her, then looked at me searchingly. “You will, of course, have followed the Butler murder trial.”

It was unexpected, to say the least. My stomach twisted into a tight knot, and I couldn’t speak. Daisy went pale. “I have,” she said finally. Her voice didn't waver.

“It's not a game,” the Inspector said again. “If this man has committed murder, it's very likely that he will hang.”

I blinked away the prickling feeling in my eyes. Stephen was a minor and so had avoided the death penalty, and I'd liked him. Michael Butler, who'd murdered for money, and who I hadn't liked, was an adult. Had been an adult, because now he also was dead. Executed. And our detecting had done it.

“I do know that.” Daisy sounded subdued.

“It doesn't mean it's not the right thing to do.” I surprised myself by speaking out. “Detecting, I mean.”

Daisy didn't say anything, but she reached for my hand and squeezed it.

“I wanted to be sure you knew that,” the Inspector said, and ushered us through the door. He took us upstairs and along to the laboratory.

There was a foxy-faced man sitting on the bench outside, next to the bulldog officer we'd seen with Miss Barnard. He looked us both over as we approached. I was dismissed with a glance, but he gave Daisy a far more searching appraisal - from her legs, up to her face and hair, and then back down again. It was a horrid way to look at her and I hated it. Daisy didn't turn a hair, and I knew it wouldn't bother her, but that didn't make it any better.

Inspector Priestly nodded to the policeman and escorted Daisy and me into the laboratory.

“You can collect your equipment now.” He’d raised his voice. “Take it into room 104, then return to your usual duties.”

For a second I couldn't think what he meant. Daisy nodded briskly and began lifting down beakers and jars of chemicals.

“Thank you for giving us this chance, Inspector,” she said, and although her voice sounded bright and artificial there was sincerity underneath it. I picked up a bunsen burner, the metal nozzle cool against my skin, and echoed a muttered thanks.

We filed out again past the foxy-faced man - I couldn't look at him - and into 104. The two chemistry labs shared a common storage room, as the Inspector had obviously discovered, but presumably this man wouldn’t know. Daisy and I tiptoed in between the shelves and squeezed in behind a half-rolled banner of the periodic table.

“My thanks for coming in so promptly,” said Inspector Priestly. I heard chairs squeak. 

“I'm hardly going to keep an officer of the law waiting.” His voice was as untrustworthy as his face. “How can I help, Inspector?”

Inspector Priestly took him through his name (the A stood for Alfred), address and occupation. Then there was a rustling noise.

“Cigarette?” 

“Don't mind if I do.” The scratch and hiss of a match striking, and then a long inhalation. “Thanks.”

“I apologise if it's not your usual brand.”

“Oh, I'm a Woodbine man myself, but I won't say no to Player’s."

Daisy's hand tightened on the edge of the bench.

“So you visit Deepdean once a month.”

“Thereabouts. Got here yesterday and I'll finish up tomorrow. Gardens aren't entirely predictable, you understand; much like women.” He chuckled. “I might need to put in some new hedge plants in one place, or prune a few overladen fruit trees in another.” 

“Or eradicate a wasps’ nest.”

A pause. “Is that what this is about? Yes, I bought cyanide, Inspector, from the Chiddingford chemist. I'd been told some of the girls had been stung, and I like to be prepared.”

I strained to hear more clearly.

“And have you got rid of it?”

“No, as a matter of fact. I brought the stuff in yesterday but I couldn't find the nest.”

“So you disposed of the cyanide.”

“It's in the garden shed here,” Clement said smoothly. “I planned to go back tomorrow and have another look. Locked up, of course.”

I could hear the Inspector's pen busy scribbling. “Do you know Joan Makepeace?”

“One of the maids here.” He sounded more cautious.

“When did you last see her?”

“Yesterday morning. She offered me a cup of tea while I was doing some work in the kitchen garden.”

“Did she seem at all - unwell?”

Clement shifted in his chair. “Not really.”

“And you haven't seen her today.”

“No.”

“You'd be happy to swear to that.”

Another pause. “What is this about?”

“Are you happily married?”

“Now look here!" Clement's chair scraped, and I could tell from his voice he'd stood up. "What the hell is all this?”

“Joan Makepeace was found dead here in the school shortly after lunch today,” the Inspector said.

This pause was the longest yet. “Dead.”

“You hadn't heard.” 

“I saw the police cars. I didn't know the details.” He sounded quite different with most of the cockiness knocked out of him. “Was it - was it an accident?”

“Perhaps you can tell me.” The Inspector's tone gave nothing away.

“You?”

“Would you like to change any of your answers?” Inspector Priestly enquired.

In the pause that followed I had to wrap my arms around myself to stop from trying to see what he was doing. Daisy was rigid with tension, her knuckles white against the bench. The stink of Clement's cigarette made my stomach roil.

“God. I. Yes," Clement said suddenly. "Maybe I knew her better than that.”

The Inspector didn't say anything.

“When you're on the road, when you're in sales - well. You want people to like you. Maybe some of them, some of the women, like you a little too much. And I'm only human. It gives them a little bit of a thrill, too. It's not like I'm the only one getting anything out of it.” The confidence was bleeding out, replaced by an ingratiating whine. 

“Joan Makepeace,” the Inspector repeated.

“She liked me. I liked her. We had an understanding. Well, maybe she misled herself a bit. I thought she knew the score, but last time I came by she started talking about marriage.”

“You'd never suggested it.”

“I say all sorts of rubbish,” said Clement. “Doesn't mean anything. So after we met up yesterday I told her we'd have to cool it a bit.”

“How did she take that?”

“She was upset. Cried a bit. But she shouldn't have expected anything more. I told her I'd still see her next month.”

“Generous of you,” the Inspector said wryly. “And where were you today between 11.30 and 1pm?”

“On the road. Finished here about eleven, drove to a job over Midderlea way. Got there around two. That's where your boys picked me up from.” The casual cockiness was creeping back.

“A long time for a short drive.”

“I like to take the scenic route. Stopped off in a byway to eat my sandwiches.”

“Can you give us details of any witnesses?”

The question hung in the air.

“No,” Clement said eventually, petulant again. “Is that all?”

The Inspector informed him that he would be accompanying an officer down to the station for fingerprinting and additional information and, ignoring Clement's attempts at protests, sent him out the door. We heard the other officer advising him to come along as they left.

Daisy went straight through to where the Inspector was and I followed. 

“What a deeply unpleasant man,” she said.

Inspector Priestly put down his pen. “I do hope you're not referring to me.”

“Of course I'm not.” Daisy stared down at the table between them. Clement had stubbed his cigarette out in one of the chemistry evaporating dishes, and Daisy slid it away from her with a shudder. She sounded more than a little defeated.

“He appears the logical culprit, and yet I find myself not entirely convinced,” the Inspector went on. “Are you?”

Daisy stared back at him, and I stared at Daisy. We didn't have a confession, true, but we had a suspect, and one who possessed means (the cyanide), a motive (to protect his marriage) and opportunity (a lack of alibi). it should have been simple. But I felt, again, as if I'd been presented with a puzzle someone else had completed, and I was more and more sure that one of the pieces wasn't quite right.

“I can't think with this smell.” Daisy crossed over to the windows and opened one with a heavy jerk. Air billowed into the room, warm and grassy.

And then I had it.

“Don't arrest him,” I said.

Daisy tilted her chin towards me. “Hazel," she said, and nothing more, but I knew she was handing over the direction of the case to me. I could tell she wasn't happy with the Inspector’s offer, but I didn't think she - or the Inspector - had put it all together yet.

“The music rooms are sound-proofed, and part of that is that the windows don't open,” I said. “The door was locked when the body was found, and locked when we went back in. Maybe you had it open for a while, investigating, but even so. There was no smell of cigarette smoke in that room.”

“So someone must have put the cigarette butt there, to frame Clement,” Daisy said, and I could hear her appreciation.

inspector Priestly leaned back in his chair. “Go on.”

It was unnerving, having all their attention on me, but a small part of me found it exhilarating as well.

“I want to ask Matron exactly which servants have keys to the music rooms,” I said. “And I need to interview Dolores Gordon again." I'd realised just how many of our assumptions had come from things she'd said.

***

This time the Inspector was standing concealed behind the periodic table, and Daisy and I sat on the stools by the big workbench. We'd sent a message to Matron with our question, and asked her to send up Dolores, rather than one of the Inspector's men.

Her eyes were still red and swollen. I thought about detecting and did my best to smile at her reassuringly.

“Have you found out anything, miss?”

“We have.” I put the Inspector's diagram on the bench, and Dolores stared at it.

“Someone else must have locked the music room door after Joan died.” I tapped the diagram. “The police found a cigarette butt in the room, and Joan didn't smoke.”

Dolores' gaze was fixed on the drawing. “You mentioned Joan had a fiancé,” I said, and then I couldn't go on. It felt too wrong to try and trap her this way. I shot a single despairing look at Daisy, sitting up straight on her stool next to me, and saw her nod in understanding.

(Matron had said, disapprovingly, that Dolores and Joan were friends, which was why she always put them on separate cleaning duties, and that of course both maids had all the keys)

“We are detectives,” Daisy said. “Just like in the books. But in the books, the detectives always start after a crime. Usually it's a murder. But the very best sort of detecting is not just finding out what happened. It's finding out what's going to happen and - if necessary - stopping it.”

It gave me the momentum I needed. “We can't stop Joan being dead,” I said. “But we can stop another murder.”

Dolores' eyes flicked up to meet mine.

“We can stop you from becoming a murderer,” I added. If Clement were hanged, however unpleasant he was, it would be murder. I'd thought about this as hard as I could, before we'd sent for Dolores, and talked to Daisy, and we both kept coming back to that single stark fact. I felt uncomfortable enough about my own role in Michael Butler's execution. I refused to help make someone else even more responsible.

Dolores closed her eyes. Two tears ran down her face.

“It's not fair,” she said. “He ruined her. I knew she was upset, but she wouldn't talk to me. And I got there too late.” She dug in her apron pocket, and pulled out a single sheet of paper, closely written in neat copperplate and stained with teary blotches. “I wanted him to pay. But once I’d done it I couldn’t make myself tell the police. So I told you.”

The paper trembled in her hand. I took it.

 _To Whoever Finds Me_ , I read. _I am sorry but I cannot go on. I am taking my own life. It is my fault for believing him, I am so stupid. I should have known no-one would really want me. Tell Dolores I am sorry and tell my aunt Ethel that I apologise for being so much trouble. I hope you will not all miss me for very long. Goodbye, Joan._

"It's not fair," Dolores said again.

"No," I said. "It's not."

We didn't solve a murder, but we stopped one, and that will have to do. The Detective Society is not about being fair. It is about being right.

EPILOGUE 

“You can all come and ride my pony.” Kitty waved one arm expansively. “Well. Visit, anyway.”

We were sitting in the new-mown grass on top of Oakeshott Hill, watching the Speech Day crowds below mingle and disperse throughout the Deepdean grounds.

“Too kind.” Lavinia spat a cherry stone towards a nearby tree trunk, hitting it dead-on with a clunk. “I don’t think my parents will even give me a goat for seventh.”

Daisy and I had missed too much school to compete for the form places, although Daisy had collected a couple of sporting cups and a prize for character (the prize did not specify what character, exactly) and Beanie was at the bottom as usual. I looked over. Beanie was counting cherry stones under her breath, undisturbed by any mention of prizes.

“Sailor.” Beanie put her finger on the last one. “A naval captain with his own ship,” she said dreamily.

“Or a merchant seaman with a drinking problem.” Lavinia screwed up her face. “This term has been awful. We should scrub it out entirely.”

Kitty shrieked in protest. “No!”

“You get a pony. I got a body,” Lavinia said bitterly. Kitty threw a cherry at her.

Daisy was looking at the serving tables set up along the edge of the playing field, now largely emptied of their contents. Three Deepdean maids were clearing away the crockery and wiping down the tables. None of them had red hair.

Dolores Gordon had vanished a week after the coroner officially declared Joan Makepeace’s death a suicide. We’d tried to track her down - Daisy had even talked her way into the school office and phoned the Inspector - but with no luck.

Daisy and I would be on the train tomorrow to London, to stay with Uncle Felix and Aunt Lucy for a week, and then we would split up: I, to Hong Kong, and Daisy to Fallingford, for the rest of the break. It was odd, thinking of being apart for that long after so many cases together.

“When we’re in London,” Daisy said, eyes still on the scene below, “I want to go to the Old Bailey, to see one of the trials. Murder, for preference.”

The other side of our detecting. Justice and punishment. Something we’d tried not to face full-on.

“Of course,” I said.

THE END


End file.
